Damayanti put on the lights...next time, she would try to book a morning flight, so she didn't have to feel around in the dark. There! The garish brightness of the walls, the completely familiar smell of family, and the sudden unfamiliar pang of guilt made up the moment.
Left exactly as she had seen it last time...only a prominent presence of complete absence - 'Do you know what I am talking about, Martin?' Damayanti’s voice trailed off on the phone. She could sense Martin fumbling for the right word. But the void remained.
After unpacking and a quick shower, she made the perfect Darjeeling brew - searched for some crackers in the kitchen. The house-help had kept a few packs of sugary biscuits...but no crackers. Never mind.
She sat, sipping the tea, looking at the far-off lights from the distant high-rises. Juggling with the growing lump in her throat, she looked for a number. A cousin. 'Can you come over? We'd sit over a cup of tea, and can order some food?' The desperate semblance of normalcy.
Nothing had changed in the city. The chaos had gotten worse. The eastern fringes, where the house was, seemed to burst at the seams. Yet Damayanti clutched on to it...like the faint whiff of her mother's talcum powder on a warm evening, like the grumpy cough of her father, sitting in the corner with his newspapers.
The roads outside were full of teeming millions - making a living, making their way from one corner of the city to another amidst crazy traffic. But not a single person to share the vacuum inside.
'We learn to live with the vacuum' Martin had reasoned. 'We go on with our daily lives, forgetting momentarily the violent pang of grief that we suffer from. But it's there, always. In the crevices of your heart. Wrapped in cotton wool. You need to air it at times, to take the moths out'.
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